


Fallout February

by Chocobohoney



Category: Fallout 3, Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, F/F, F/M, Gambling, Ghouls, M/M, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22519948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chocobohoney/pseuds/Chocobohoney
Summary: In celebration of Fallout February, I offer forth to the community these humble works. Happy reading!
Relationships: John Hancock (Fallout)/Original Female Character(s), John Hancock/Female Sole Survivor, Male Courier/Arcade Gannon, Paladin Danse (Fallout)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	1. Fallout February 2nd-Radiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Slight Warning***  
> Use of Drugs and Alcohol.

February 2nd-Radiation

John Hancock took a long, deep drag off of his cigarette, before letting out a plume of gray smoke in an irritated sigh. Nothing made him feel relaxed that night; not the crazy amount of vodka he’d been downing, the Daddy-O he’d taken shortly before he’d traipsed down to the Third Rail Bar was a bust, and not even the dulcet strains of Magnolia’s voice nor the jazzy tunes she crooned to were much help in taking off the edge that gnawed at the back of his neck like a wild mongrel.

He sat at his customary spot at the bar like always, sulking under the shadows cast by his weathered tricorn hat, muttering and grumbling to himself; partial word strings and unintelligible utterances hung around his head like a thundercloud, and it was enough of a dark mood that fouled the surrounding air that the other patrons gave the usually cheerful, congenial Mayor of Goodneighbor, a wide berth.

“Shall I top ya off, Mayor ‘Ancock?” Whitechapel Charlie’s voice cut in over the din of the ghouls thoughts. Those piercing, black orbs looked down to see that his drink was empty, and yet he didn’t remember touching it. He gave a humorless chuckle as he halfheartedly nudged his glass towards the modded Mister Handy.

“Sure Chuck, could use a little more.” His voice sounded far lower than Charlie had heard it in a while, and while the robot obliged his best patron, he couldn’t help but question just what had driven his Mayor into such a state.

“I ain’t seen the little lady about wif ya this evenin’. She not joinin’ ya tonight, Gov?” He asked as diplomatically as he could as he poured out the bottle of alcohol into the Mayor’s cup. Hancock gave a derisive snort before he downed his drink in one gulp, slamming it back onto the counter with a little more force than Charlie was comfortable with; he hoped he didn’t lose any more glasses that night, as it was hard enough to find replacements for them nowadays.

“She ain’t here.” Hancock bit out, and then grimaced; the Mister Handy didn’t deserve to be snapped at for something that was obviously not his fault.

“Sorry, Chuck. No, Sole ain’t here.” His sigh was long, his expression aggravated as he ran a tattered hand over the twisted flesh on his face. “She went out to do a job…”

If Whitechapel Charlie had been made with eyebrows, they would have been arching at that moment. Ever since the Mayor of Goodneighbor had started shacking up with Sole, he’d gone practically everywhere with her, on every mission she went on, and every time she ventured beyond the protective gates of their raunchy burg, John Hancock was usually with her. Sure, there was the odd occasion that she went out on her own, but those instances were exceedingly rare, and whenever those times happened, Hancock could be found at Charlie’s bar table doing pretty much the same thing he was doing currently, only without the air of curmudgeonly mutterings; something was different this time around.

“S’all right, gov. No chrome off my dome, heh. So eh…if it’s not too much of a botha, sir, whatcha got eatin’ ya?” The robot asked, as nonchalantly as he could manage. 

The Mayor gave a grunt as he rubbed out the embers on his dying butt.

“She took Mac with her this time.” He reached into his jacket pocket pulling out a crumpled pack of smokes, his nimble fingers deftly plucking a dart free.

“I know why she took him with her, and while I can’t fault her for it, doesn’t mean I’m happy with the decision; I just…HATE it when she takes jobs from those Diamond City bigots. Sole should be sticking closer to Sanctuary, or better yet Goodneighbor, ya know? Places that truly appreciate the hell that woman goes through just to make this fucked up world a little safer.”

The robot chuckled, grabbing a new bottle off the dusty bar shelf.

“Neva thought I’d see the day ole Mayor ‘Ancock leaning in favor of the domestic life. You thinkin’ a tellin’ the little lady to stick closer to home, are ya?” Charlie teased, reaching to pour another glass of vodka, and was surprised when the ghoul quickly covered the top of his empty cup with his hand; he’d never known the man to call it quits on drinks, especially when he was pining for his Sole.

The ghoul gave a dry, gravelly laugh as he leaned back into his chair, flashing the bartender his next vice of choice as he reached into the furthest depths of his red coat: a canister of jet, full and ready for his enjoyment.

“Heh…domestic, eh?” He took out the jet canister, shook it, and then shot it, sucking in the chemical vapors deep into his lungs until he felt the first tingles of that uplifting rush, grateful to have his mood lightened.

“Never thought I’d hear that in the same sentence as my name.” He exhaled, feeling his high hit him like a super mutant punch as he watched the chemical vapors slowly swirl around in the air from his breath, time creeping to a crawl in his minds eye.

“Then again...I guess I can’t help but worry about her when I’m not with her, ya know, Chuck? I kinda feel like…if I’m there with Sole, I’ll never lose her…can always keep her safe. I know RJ can handle himself, but that’s MY woman out there with’em, and he ain’t as…attached to her as I am…ain’t got stakes in this to lose, if you know what I mean.” The ghouls voice sounded slurred, his thoughts on full display for Charlie as the Jet relaxed his mental filter.

“But she had to take this job in Diamond City, had to see if she could sniff out more clues about her…son. I told her I would go with her, dress myself up from head-to-toe so the bigots wouldn’t see me, but Sole said ‘No’. You know what she tole me, Chuck? She said she refused to put me at risk. I was too important to her to lose, and she promised to play it safe and take someone with her...” Hancock sounded bitter for a moment, his face twisted into a sullen pout before he sucked in another hit off of his inhaler; had to keep his high going or he’d start feeling pretty low, lower than he already felt.

“Not like we haven’t gone up against far worse before. Hell, we’ve been shot at, blown up, stabbed, poisoned, damn near nuked by psychotic super mutants, and SHE wants to protect ME from those smoothskin pricks?” He complained before fully emptying the last of the jet.

“I get what she’s doing Chuck, I really do, and I…I love her for it. Sole means the world to me, but it don’t mean I gotta like it when she does this…” He gestured a weathered hand in the air with a flourish. “…whatever it is.”

“Besides,” He huffed as he further slumped into his chair. “she said that people would take notice of a guy wearing winter kit when it’s the middle of July.”

Whitechapel Charlie gave a barking laugh, his voice modulator vibrating his bodies metal casing with mirth.

“Sounds to me like your lady was keepin’ ya from stickin’ out like a sore thumb. You know them ‘igh-faluten types; they don’t play fair, not like the riffraff out wanderin’ the wastes. Against whateva the wasteland throws atcha, the two’a you has the advantage, but Diamond City’d ‘ave you outnumbered 150-2.” Charlie teased, though Hancock had to admit he did have a solid point.

Charlie reached out a metal arm, grabbing a can of purified water off the shelf behind himself, and pouring it’s contents into Hancocks empty glass; he knew the Mayor always got cotton mouth after hitting up the Jet.

“Begging your pardon Mayor ‘Ancock, if ya don’t mind my saying so…?” Charlie paused, looking for permission to voice his thoughts as he scooted the filled glass to his boss.

Hancock smirked at him with his ruined mouth, taking the water from him and raising it up as if to toast the robot.

“Go ahead Chuck, you don’t gotta ask to talk. This is Goodneighbor: Home of the free-for-all and who-gives-a-fuck. Lay it on me.” He slammed the water same as if it were his beloved vodka, smacking his cracked lips in appreciation before wiggling his cup in front of himself, indicating he’d like more.

“Thank ya kindly, sir. Well, if I may be as bold as brass, a woman like Sole ain’t gonna be keen on goin’ anywhere at all wifout ya…if she’s ringed. Ya catch my drift?” 

“Whaaaaat?” The ghoul drawled, smirking, just as Magnolia finished her set on stage, addressing her audience to let them know she was taking a 10 minute break before bowing out as gracefully as a sparrow. She sauntered up to the bar, pulling up a seat next to the mayor, her red sequined dress glinting in the low light as she took up the spot.

“Charlie darlin’, my usual please.” She lilted, before turning to face John.

“Saw you boys having a nice chat, thought I’d invite myself over while I take a breather. You feelin’ alright there, Mister Mayor?” Magnolia purred as she took the offered glass of wine from the robot bartender, raising it in salute before sitting back and taking a pleasured sip.

“The Mayor ‘ere’s in a bit of tizzy since his lady’s larkin’ about wif MacCready an’ he’s stuck home.” Hancock shot Charlie a baleful glare, only to seconds later laugh it off, not really meaning any animosity behind it.

Magnolia arched a delicate brow, her painted lips quirking into a mischievous grin.  
“Oh?” She asked demurely. “Feelin’ a little heartsick for our girl?”  
Hancocks only reply was to roll his eyes at her as he reached over the counter and snagged a new bottle of vodka, popping the top off of it before taking a hearty swig.  
“You know honey, I heard somewhere that the best way to keep someone glued to you, is to tie them right to your side with a big old knot…” She trailed off, her dulcet voice heavy with suggestion.

“I got a funny feeling that between the two’a you, you’re trying to marry me off. What gives?” He chuckled wryly.  
“Am I really that awful when she’s not around?”

“Like a thrice bad rad-storm, if you’ll pardon the sayin’ so, gov.” Replied Charlie.

The singer placed a soft hand on the back of his tattered mitt, leaning in with those sultry eyes of hers practically boring holes into his head, momentarily silencing the doubts that threatened to swallow him whole.

“It’s no surprise how we feel about you, John; Charlie and I just want to see the both of you happy, and you’re happiest when you and Sole are together. Now, Sole’s an old fashioned woman, especially considering she’s as prewar as they come: you put a ring on her finger and I guarantee that this’ll be the last time you’re left behind to sulk at the Third Rail.”

Hancocks eyes narrowed, mouth smirking as he arched a naked brow at Magnolia’s bold statement.

“It’s my bar…? I can sulk if I want to.” He quipped, shrugging his shoulders.

“And nobody’s here to contest that darlin’, but your moping about is clouding up the place; I have to sing twice as hard to cut through that storm you got brewin’.” She teased, giving his hand a squeeze before leaning back in her seat, taking another sip of her drink.  
“No offense intended, Mayor ‘Ancock, but I’m wif the lady on this one. Mags is right: there’s a dozen people in the bar right now, and yet the only two people I’ve served is the two’a you; Yer spookin the customers.” Charlie jested, as he motioned towards the other patrons in the joint who sat as far from the bar as possible.

“Et tu, Chuck?” The ghoul chuckled, taking another swig off of his booze before wiping the excess from his face on the back of his sleeve.

“Look handsome, all Charlie and I are trying to say is give it a thought. You’re obviously mad about her, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that she’s just as crazy about you. Live that while you can, honey. With the way the Commonwealth chews people up, and spits’em out, you gotta hold onto that with both hands.”

Magnolia stood up from her spot, throwing back the rest of her wine as if it were nothing, before placing it delicately back onto the bar. She turned towards the mayor, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Besides, you’d be doin’ this poor lounge singer a huge favor.”

The ghoul smirked back up at her, obsidian orbs glinting with humor.

“Oh, really? How’s that, Mags?” 

Magnolia leaned in close to his face, close enough that he could feel the heat of her breath fan across his rough cheek.

“Help a gal out, by helping her win a bet against Whitechapel there. I bet 100 caps you’d propose to her the minute she gets back: Charlie bet against it.” She gave him a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek before slipping away back to her stage. She stopped just a few steps shy of her usual perch, casting a sultry look over her shoulder.

“Don’t let me down.” She winked, before ascending up to her microphone and getting the bar back into the swing of things.

Hancock sat with his vodka in hand, his high mind seriously mulling over what his friends had just dropped on him. The more his brain worked it, the more he could see the truth in their words. He loved Sole, and while having her as his wife would technically mean she’d be less inclined to leave him behind, that’s not why he wanted to do it, hell, he wasn’t even guaranteed that she wouldn’t do it more just to protect him. Magnolia was right, though: life out in the Commonwealth was far too uncertain to keep playing “The Fools Game”; John Hancock was going to ask Sole to marry him.

Just as he was about to break the news to Whitechapel Charlie that the bot was about to lose 100 caps to Magnolia, there came a ruckus from the upper stairs near the entrance to the Third Rail. He could hear Ham’s voice, a muffled echo down the stairwell, followed by the frantic cry of his right hand woman.

Fahrenheit tore down into the bar like her heals were on fire, rounding the corner and practically leaping over a patron in her pursuit of the ghoul mayor.

“Fahrenheit what..?”  
“Boss, you gotta come with me quick!” She interrupted, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out of his chair.

“What in the hell is going on, Fahr?” He asked, mind still reeling with his earlier decision. The red-headed woman gave his arm another tug towards the exit, her face grim-set and determined.

“It’s RJ and Sole…” She began, and the wobble in her voice had the world sink out from under his booted feet.

“Where are they?” His tone was low, too even-sounding, as if he had instantly snapped out of his stoned, drunken reverie at merely hearing their names.

“Both were escorted to the Memory Den by some of the neighborhood watch. They looked bad, boss…” She never got to finish her sentence. The second Hancock found out where his lover, and her gun-for-hire\best friend were taken, he was off like a flash.  
The ghoul had never run so fast in his life, tearing through the stairwell at breakneck speed, bursting out through the doors of the Third Rail out into the bright light of day, almost blinding him. He flew over the ruined concrete, barely touching the ground until he was standing before the doors to the Memory Den.

He threw them open without pause, not caring in the slightest who he disturbed, nor if he’d broken the door in his haste to gain entry. Storming through the small hallway, he was stopped in his tracks by none other than the proprietress of the Den, Irma. She stood before him in her crimson and purple, velvet glory, blond hair done up in it’s beautiful coif, her green eyes looking sorrowed.

Oh, no…oh please no…Hancocks brain screamed, his heart almost stopping.

“I’ve been expecting you.” She said softly, as if she’d been waiting hours for him to show up, when he’d only taken minutes to get there.  
“Where is she?” He growled, barely able to hide the fear from his voice.

“She’s with Doctor Amari…who’s trying to make her as comfortable as possible…”

“DON’T SAY IT LIKE THAT!” Hancock snapped, before taking a steadying breath after he saw Irma physically wince.

“Don’t talk about Sole like she’s dying.” His tone this time was quieter, but the edge was still there.

“Take me to her.”  
~~~  
Sole lay out on Dr. Amari’s lounge chair, her skin looked as if it had been simultaneously drained of life and then dangerously sun burnt all at once, red splotches marring her once pristine skin in a pattern that the Mayor of Goodneighbor was all too familiar with. Her left shoulder had been bound with a makeshift bandage, fresh blood slowly seeping through what was was almost definitely a bullet wound. Her once beautiful brunette hair lay matted against her skin with blood and dirt, and it was then Hancock saw just how eerily still his woman was; her chest barely rising and falling with breath.

The good Doctor leaned over her, checking the line of Radaway that was flowing into Soles arm before turning to face him.

“Ah, Mayor Hancock…” She said softly, motioning for him to follow her out of the room. He obeyed, albeit reluctantly, following her back into the hallway he’d come through earlier, closing the door to her makeshift operating room behind her.

“What’s the low down?” He asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice. Doctor Amari shook her head, her brown eyes looking dull, and sad.

“Sole is badly irradiated, and has lost a significant amount of blood. I’ve set her up with all the Radaway her body can handle right now, and I’ve given her a heavy dose of Med-X for the pain.” She sighed, looking years older than what she was, and Hancock could see the weight of the situation baring down on her bowed shoulders.

“I’ve used up all of my remaining Stimpacks on her, and have done all that I can to give her a fighting chance. I’m going to be blunt, John: Sole’s odds do not look good. The shear amount of damage she’s taken, combined with the radiation poisoning, I don’t know that…” Hancock raised up a weathered hand, effectively stopping Amari’s words short.

“You said you gave her a fighting chance; let’s just leave it at that. Sole has been through far worse, and I ain’t into feedin’ the demons of doubt while she still breathes. Where’s MacCready?”

Robert MacCready had been expecting Hancock to show up at any moment as he sat resting in Kent Connolly’s room, his left leg bandaged heavily. The ghoul had been kind enough to lend him his couch while Sole was looked after by Doctor Amari since he didn’t want to be too far from her in case…in case she…

No! He wouldn’t think that! He wasn’t going to lose his best friend, not to anything! Sole was stronger than that! She was going to get through this…right?

“MacCready!” He heard his named barked at him, bringing him back to his senses just in time to see the Mayor of Goodneighbor bearing down on him.

John Hancock looked positively feral as he stood there in the doorway to Kent’s room, black eyes gleaming with fury, tears glinting in the corners of his worn sockets, fists clenched and trembling beneath the weight of his emotions. He practically dove at him, snatching Robert up by his lapels, and hoisting him up off Kent’s couch; Kent was thankfully out of the Memory Den at that moment, getting whatever supplies he could to help Doctor Amari out, and thankfully not there to bare witness to his Mayors outburst.

“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED OUT THERE?!?” Hancock snarled in Roberts face, practically shaking him in his iron grasp as tears streamed unbidden down his twisted cheeks.  
“I TRUSTED YOU TO KEEP HER SAFE! SHE TRUSTED YOU TO KEEP HER SAFE! AND NOW SHE’S…Sole is…” His voice broke into sobs, and just as quickly as he had snatched up the poor man, he dropped him back onto the couch, crumpling down at his feet on the floor. 

“John…I…it was super mutants. We were ambushed three blocks shy of getting here by a troop of five…th-they had a suicider. Sole and I got separated somehow in the crossfire, it happened so fast. One minute she was with me, and the next minute I was pinned down behind a shabby wall, bleeding out of my leg. I thought I had enough cover, that maybe I had escaped notice, but that stupid mutant with the nuke…he…he saw me. Went right for me, but Sole jumped out from where she was hiding…” Robert was openly sobbing as he lay slumped back on the couch, his leg wound throbbing, his eyes overflowing with grief.

“She screamed at it, got it to chase her, but she wasn’t fast enough…the second that thing blew up, I shot the last of it’s buddies, and I booked it for her. I tried to Stimpack her with what I had…John, I’m…I’m so sorry.”

Hancock stood up, his face a mask of rage, hurt, and a whole range of feelings that Robert MacCready had felt once before, when his Lucy had been taken from him; He knew that John was teetering on the edge of losing his humanity.

In a voice as flat as 200 year old Nuka Cola, he said between clenched teeth,

“Doctor Amari says that Sole’s odds aren’t good, that the radiation poisoning might just be too much for her to survive, but to me that doesn’t mean she’s out just yet; She’s a fighter. But…” And it was then that he pegged MacCready with the chilliest glare he had ever received in his life.  
“If she doesn’t make it, I want you out of here, out of Goodneighbor for good, and I never want to see your face again, on pain of death. Ya dig?” 

The only thing the sniper could do was nod in reply, choking on the agony that crawled up his throat and stole his voice. Hancock turned to leave, but stopped, barely looking over his own shoulder.

“I love that woman with every fiber of my being. Hell, she’s the only good thing I got left in this world, and I was planning on asking her to marry me. Now, it looks like I might not get that chance.” And with that, he left RJ alone, quietly sobbing in Kents room.  
The mayor took his place next to the woman he loved, pulling up a chair to wait and watch, either to be the first thing she saw when she woke up, or to be there with her in her final moments; all the while cursing the very thing that had made him a ghoul.


	2. Fallout February 5th- Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little taste of New Vegas, and some fluff! Happy Fallout February!
> 
> ***Slight Warning***  
> Use of drugs and alcohol.

Arcade Gannon was, to say the least, flustrated: Flustered and frustrated, as he attempted to try and keep his…half-naked patient from leaving their bedroll for the 8th time that night, and to keep their grabbing hands from being, well, grabby; there had been many a moment he’d had to swat away wandering hands from certain parts of his personage, much to his chagrin.

“C’mooooon, Gan-gan! Le’me up! I can *HIC* kick her ass! Martine can’t win’em all!” His Courier, the nut, the big lump of an idiot, had been roofied by his own doing on a dare! It was enough of a job just trying to keep him alive out in the Mojave, but add to that the shenanigans that were a frequent part of their day-to-day lives? Arcade was certain that, though he was as blond as the midday sun, he was sure to find some streaks of silver among his locks of gold, courtesy of Six. 

“Martine is currently passed out on the bed, you big goof. You won’t be getting a rematch any time soon, so just lie still while the Fixer does it’s thing, and try to go to sleep.”  
Arcade cast his green eyes over to the female ghoul who had taken up residence on the dirty bed in their shared room. Her bright, purple, twisted flesh glinting in the light of the lamps that sat around the place, her trade marked sniper rifle lay next to the bed within easy reach. Quiet snores rumbled up from her chest, somewhat muffled underneath the hat that covered her face, sounding very much like sandy gravel being scuffed under a worn boot as she slept off her victory.

At least he didn’t have to worry about her, Gannon thought. This wasn’t the first time she’d done something like this, and as far as he could see, it certainly wouldn’t be the last thanks to her unique physiology.

“Look! Looooook! My hands are SO BIG!” Six said suddenly, stretching his beefy arms out in front of himself, his big, blue eyes shining like polished marbles as the drug, and the sheer amount of alcohol the handsome imbecile had downed only a few hours ago coursed though his veins like a rampaging deathclaw.

Arcade squeezed out a damp scrap of cloth he’d been using to wipe the sweat off of Six’s brow, pushing the man’s red bangs out of his pale face, before gently pushing the well-muscled arms back down by their owners side.

“Oh, yes. Very big, Six. The biggest hands in all of Free Side.” He said, soothingly, trying to keep the courier calmed enough for the poor researcher to handle him. Six was running a fever no thanks in part to the combination of the alcohol and the drugs the half-wit had taken earlier in the evening; had the moron not tried to take on the notorious Martine Debaron, the French ghoul sniper known throughout the Mojave as “The Purple Martin” in a contest of billiards the likes of which Arcade had never seen, well…he wouldn’t be in the spot of trouble he was in now.

Martine was a well known drinker and user of questionable medicines, who kept equally questionable company, and Six was among those whom she counted as ‘friend’; Arcade could honestly say that he liked Martine. She had a reputation for doing good for the people of the wasteland, and the Followers of the Apocalypse adored her for her willingness to help them without asking for pay, and he found her company to be pleasant, when she was sober. She’d also been partially responsible for Six’s reeducation after his recovery from being shot in the head, having taken the time to reteach him how to read, do basic math, as well as teaching him her beloved French, among other things; oddly enough she had discovered that the courier had a knack for learning languages.

Six was the only person alive that Martine could converse with in her native tongue, and because she had spent so much time with him, the two had become the best of friends, making a habit of meeting each other as often as possible at their favorite bar. However, whenever she and Six hung out, usually at the Atomic Wrangler between jobs, things tended to get a little out of hand, or in this particular case, way out of hand.

Martine and Six had started off their reunion sharing a Nuka Cola, a time-honored tradition between the two; a nod to when they first became friends. This was quickly followed by alcohol, lots and lots of it, and then promptly chased down with whatever chems the sniper had on her at the time, the two of them conversing in French all the while; the ghoul was currently teaching Arcade the basics of the language, so that he, too could join them, but for the most part, he could only contribute little snippets here and there.  
Six was usually really good at keeping the chem usage out of his system when he was inebriated knowing full well that his boyfriend wasn’t too keen on it’s usage for anything other than medical necessity. But when his bestie dared him that she could out-shoot him in billiards drunk, with one arm tied behind her back, and 100 caps as a prize for whoever won… Well, the courier just couldn’t let that stand, particularly with such a tasty bet taunting him.

If he was known for anything other than being a hero out in the Mojave, it was that Six was a bit of a gambler, and almost never backed down from a bet. The courier had a penchant for raising the stakes on every wager he took, sometimes with ridiculous add-ons that made Arcade want to smack his own forehead in disbelief; this was Six’s Achilles heel more or less and it drove his poor, long-suffering companion crazy.  
So, when Six added on that he could do all that drunk, AND drugged off of his ass (already well into his cups by that point), tossing another 100 caps to the pile, Gannon knew that this wasn’t going to end well, particularly for his paramour, and it didn’t. Martine won by a landslide, having been granted a hardy metabolism thanks in part to her ghoulish nature, she beat the big dope 7-0, royally spanking him in front of all the patrons at the Wrangler; at least she’d had the decency to help haul Six’s large ass up to a private room to help him recover from their mischief-making.

“Arcaaaaade…” Six’s baritone voice suddenly cut through the man’s thoughts, bringing him back to reality seconds before the great lummox grabbed a hold of the poor fellow in a bear hug. Arcade was instantly pulled down on top of Six’s muscular, sweat-soaked, downy chest, the courier nuzzling his scruffy face into Arcades neck with a happy groan.

“Cud-dle meeeee!” He whined, snuggling even more into his captive’s pale throat. The researchers face was beet red, all the way up into the roots of his golden hair.  
“S-s-six!” He squawked. “I can’t cuddle you right now, you’re delirious! And I have to make sure you don’t die of drug overdose, or alcohol poisoning, whichever comes first, and keep it down! You’ll wake up Martine! Now, unhand me!”

The only reply he received was a series of giggles from his boyfriend, who only hugged Arcade tighter to his chest.

“Six wants cuddles! Six wants cuddles! SIX WANTS CUDDLES!” The man sounded like a child throwing a silly tantrum, and if the only way to get him to behave was to do as the big baby demanded, well, it looked like he was going to be stuck there for a while.

“Alright! Alright! I’ll snuggle you, you giant infant!” He relented, relaxing into his boyfriend’s embrace, hugging his bare ribs and letting himself go limp.

“If this will keep you quiet, and calm…”He sighed, reaching up to take off his glasses, setting them off to the side on the floor hoping to whatever higher powers there were that Six wouldn’t get them while Arcade was his cuddle-captive.

Six burbled happily, content to have his ‘Gan-Gan’ tucked into his arms like he was the worlds largest stuffed animal. Inwardly Arcade had to laugh; best researcher in all of the Mojave, and this is what he was currently doing with his life…shacking up with the deserts craziest defender, and getting into ridiculous situations with him and his half-baked friend, and yet he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

“Je t’aime, petit or ( I love you, Little Gold One).” Six said in French, voice rumbling out of his chest like a purr, calling Ganon by the nickname he usually reserved for their more intimate moments.

Arcade chuckled, giving his man a brief squeeze, before snuggling closer to him.

“I love you, too, ton cul (You ass). Now go to sleep.” 

With his mate in his arms, his best friend passed out in the bed above them, Six finally fell asleep, muttering sweet little French words of nothing as he drifted off into the night.


	3. Fallout February 9th- Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is Fallout February's 3rd update! The prompt I chose was Aftermath, and I used it to give a glimpse of one of my OC's beginnings.  
> I hope you enjoy it!

Martine DeBaron looked herself over in the dingy mirror of her “room” at Carol’s Place in D.C., noting the new tears in her weathered, tattered skin, or what was left of it. Beneath the purple-hued scraps of flesh her muscle and tendons glowed dully in the light of the room, somehow unaffected by the fact that they were exposed to the elements. Martine always marveled at how becoming a ghoul had made her invincible…well, almost. She still bled when shot at, and pain was still very much a thing, but at least she was tougher than she once was, tougher than that faraway slip-of-a-woman she had once been in the days leading up to nuclear war.

Her once beautiful brunette hair shone in clumpy shades of indigo (colors she’d only ever seen in hot house flowers back before the bombs) and she knew that this wasn’t normal, even for a ghoul. Even her eyes with irises that had once been a brilliant shade of blue, now luminously yellow-orange, softly lit up the dark sockets of her thin face casting an eerie glow across her reed-thin cheek bones, and in the gloom making her look like a neon harbinger of Death.

The French ghoul knew how this had come to pass, knew that the all-important bacteria she had been attempting to transport to the bomb shelter she and her parents were supposed to weather out the war in, were the cause of her strange discoloration; so much research lost to the ages, marking her flesh, bone, and soul with her failure in safeguarding the future of the country she had come to love. Was this the universe’s way of punishing her failings, by granting her long life in order to pay penance for her lack of vision?

It certainly felt that way to Martine, who couldn’t stop the procession of memories, like pent up bubbles bursting forth from a shaken Nuka Cola the more she stared down her spider-webbed reflection. Ghosts of her past danced before her glazing eyes as her mind spilled onward, filling her with their haunting, all too familiar pain…

“Ma fille, dépêche-toi! Nous n'avons pas beaucoup de temps pour arriver au coffre-fort! (My daughter, we must hurry! We haven’t much time to reach the vault!)” Her father’s voice echoed in her head, his pale, mustached face bordering on panic as he urged her to run; the nukes were dropping!

“Je vais aussi vite que possible, Papa! Je ne peux pas abandonner mes recherches! (I’m going as fast as I can, Papa! I can’t abandon my research!)” She had replied, her voice as dulcet and sweet as the first liquid notes of a nightingale, sounding nothing like the dusty, dry croak of noise she made nowadays days.  
She remembered rushing about her lab, snatching up vials of the bacteria baths that held, what she was certain to be, the saving grace of the very earth they stood on. But, she was a fool! A damned, wretched fool! She KNEW how precious those batches were, how she should have had them stowed away the night before, ready to be transported with her to their vault! But she needed to keep researching the newly-mixed batches, had to see what other things those wondrous, little microbes could do, what they might save; she was relentless in the pursuit of knowledge, even while in the face of impending doom.

She watched her once lovely self fill a useless trunk full of her darling cultures, and she wanted to scream at her younger self, cry out in frustrated agony to move! Escape! EXECUTEZ-VOUS STUPIDE SALOPE (run you stupid bitch!)!!! But it was useless; her flashbacks never heard her.  
Her fathers face filled her view again, and Martine felt her heart almost stop, knowing full well what was coming.

“Martine! Pour l'amour du ciel, laissez-le! Ta mère est déjà dans la voiture d'escorte! (Martine! For heaven’s sake, leave it! Your mother is already in the escort car!)” Her father pleaded, his eyes, the same blue hers had once been, shining back at her with tears brimming in their corners, fear distorting his mouth. She could see him in almost perfect clarity, every blond wisp of hair on his wrinkled head, every whisker in his curling mustache. In that moment, she wished she had told him just how much she loved him, and just how thankful she was to have him and her maman (mama) as her parents, but she was robbed by her own stupid, idiocy, when off in the distance they heard the first major bomb hit. 

“Je t’aime, mon petit oiseau…(I love you, my little bird).” His last words echoed in her heart like the mournful toll of a funerary bell as the tears slipped unbidden, cascading down the cracked leather of her flesh. He had thrown his arms around her shoulders, his silver martin pin pressed into her chest as he crushed his baby against him, and then the world went white.  
When she had come too miraculously enough, and somehow still standing, she found herself surrounded by the most eerie silence she had ever born witness to. Her watering, screaming eyes darted around in her head, taking in the empty, blazing world around her; the entire lab was gone, vaporized, and when she looked down at her own arms that were glowing with a freakish, purple light, she saw that what remained of her Papa was naught but ash. She felt a burning sting near her left breast, and when she looked upon her naked body, her weeping eyes saw her fathers beloved pin, burned into the flesh right over her mutating heart; her sins forever emblazoned onto her being.

“Miss Purple Martin?” A familiar voice shook her from her memories, pulling her from the past like the kick of a radstag to the ghouls head. Martine blinked the tears away, swiping at them furiously with her dirty sleeve.

“O-oui? (yes?)” She tried to keep the tremor from her tone, trying to hold back the damn that always threatened to burst in these...moments of reflection.

“I have your soup ready for you, Miss.” Carols gravelly voice came through the door.  
“Ah! Merci, madame Carol. I will be out momentarily.” She replied, pitching herself to sound more upbeat than what she actually felt.

“Alrighty, Miss.” Carol said, before Martine could hear the older ghoul woman’s footfalls leading away.

The ghoul took one last look in the mirror before she put her signature cowboy hat on and grabbed her precious sniper rifle, leaving Martine DeBaron behind in the cracked glass of the room, and putting The Purple Martin (having adopted the name in honor of her father's favorite bird) back onto her persona like she was putting on a coat. The aftermath of her past nothing more than drying streaks of salt, and twisted flesh beneath her clothes.  
Time to go out and face the world, face the future she was fighting to build for the people of the Mojave by protecting their caravans to D.C., and to try and live the best she could, for her Maman and Papa.


	4. Fallout February 12th- Comradery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This installment has another one of my OC's, and my dear friend Robobrainmurdermysterytheater's (On Tumblr) OC Jack Daniel O'Kelley. This was an absolute pleasure to write his character in here, and I can't help but feel that Jack helped make this short story complete. Thanks, Robo. Love ya, bro.

Danse wasn’t sure what woke him up first: the desert-like feel of his thick tongue rasping against the roof of his parched mouth, or the distant drum of an angry fist upon the front door of his makeshift home. Either way he was displeased as he slowly, painfully, roused himself from the relative safety of his warm blanket, the steel frame of his bed squeaking in protest, sounding much like the creak of his aching back; he felt so gross at that moment, and that was saying something for a man who lived in the wastelands where bathing opportunities were severely limited up until a few months ago...

He caught sight of himself in the little mirror he had propped up on the rebuilt dresser right next to him, noticing the horrendously disheveled state his hair was in, not to mention how bleary and bloodshot his once bright, brown eyes looked. Dark smudges hung like bruises beneath his sockets while a scrubby, five-o-clock shadow was dangerously close to becoming a full beard on his chiseled jaw, and he grunted at himself in disgust.

“Disgraceful.” He growled at his reflection, promptly placing the the mirror to lay flat before getting up. 

Another round of knocks came from his front door, this time sounding much more insistent, and as much as it aggravated his hangover and irritated the piss out of him, Danse stumbled his way to greet and promptly chase off whomever it was trespassing on his doorstep. With as much vehemence as the ex-paladin could muster, he threw open his door ready to bring down the wrath of his judgement, a line of diatribe locked and loaded behind his teeth like a bullet cocked in a pistol just itching to be shot. However, the minute he stepped out of his home (if he could even call it that), blinking owlishly into what was clearly mid-day light, he was struck dumb at the sight of a familiar face glaring up at him.

His want for vitriol promptly died then and there as the icy blue stare of Celestine O’Kelley-Hancock bored holes into his skull like the hot beam from a laser rifle. Her arms were crossed over her ample, vault-suited bosom, brunette hair tied back into it’s typical messy bun, while her left foot tapped the ground impatiently.

“Good, you’re up.” She said by way of a greeting, pushing passed Danse and marching right into his place, briefly eyeballing the liquor bottles that lay haphazardly strewn all over the ruined tile floor.  
She immediately whipped around after a 30 second survey of the mess before asking in a crisp voice,

“Where is your toiletry kit?”

Danse, dressed in nothing more than his boxers and a ratty white t-shirt was too stunned (and still a little too drunk from the night before) to really answer, instead opting to point with his index towards his dresser. Celestine instantly stalked over to his bedside, yanking open the top drawer with restrained anger (and the ex-paladin had spent enough time with the woman to know when she was livid) and pulled out the small, leather bag that had all of his bath stuff.

Once she’d gotten her hands on the thing, she stood up just as sharply as her attitude, marched right up to the man she considered family and pointed at the door.

”What…what are you doing…?” Danse was immediately cut off.

“You’re going to get cleaned up, right this minute. I am taking you to the bath house where you are to shower, shave, and make yourself presentable. I’ve had just about enough of this…” And she gestured to his entire being with a flick of her hand. “…bullshit, and so has everyone else in Sanctuary.”

“I’m also pretty pissed off at the state of my cousin.” Celestine’s voice came out clipped, and he felt his heart sink at the mention of the one man who Danse loved more than anything else in the Commonwealth. "You made Jackie cry, and that's unacceptable!"

“Look, Celestine I can’t…” The short woman threw up a hand in his face, effectively silencing him yet again.

“Unless you’re going to tell me that you have difficulty washing your own back, I don’t want to hear it. You’re getting a scrub down, and then you and Jack are going to talk, and that’s final.” Her tone was one that brooked no argument, but Danse was hungover, his head hurt, his heart ached for his other half, and he felt about as agreeable as an enraged yao guai.

His face warped into a dark scowl, and he crossed his muscled arms over his chest like a petulant child.

“This is absolutely ridiculous, Celestine. I’m not going to…”  
Danse never saw it coming, but he sure as fuck felt it. Searing pain radiated from his left ear, zinging all the way down his neck and into his spine. The zippy little Vault Dweller had him by the upper ear lobe, her sharp nails pinching in just the wrong place using a pressure point to force him to bend down to her level and submit; he yelped like a kicked puppy. 

“Enough of this.” She hissed, promptly leading him by the ear like an angry mother with her errant kid into the embarrassing light of day.  
"I have had it up to HERE with this idiocy, soldier." Celestine growled, dragging him along the broken road towards the bath house they'd finally built earlier that year. 

"I get that life threw you a curve ball, and grappling with your identity has been a living hell." She stopped for a moment, tugging on the ex-paladin's lobe until his chocolate eyes were facing the gaze of her sky blues.  
"But, shutting out those of us who love you, who count you as family and can't bare to see you suffer is just as fucking rotten. You hurt us, and what's worse you hurt Jack, and he's your husband! You owe it to him, and yourself to step up and overcome this challenge because that is exactly what this is: A challenge! Brotherhood of Steel be damned, you're still a fucking Paladin, and it's time you started acting like one again." 

Tears stung the corners of Danse's eyes and he knew that the woman holding his poor ear hostage, someone he loved dearly as a sister, was very much right. They again began walking, and as he plodded along next to Celestine his mind was flooded with everything that he'd done within the three month span that he'd found out he was a synth. 

He'd been awful to Jack, closing himself off from the one person who truly loved him despite how cold and withdrawn he'd become in his spiral of self-loathing. After Danse had hit the bottle (and boy did he hit it hard) he lost control one night, screaming at his husband in a drunken rage that all he'd wanted was to have died back at the bunker, free of the knowledge that he wasn't human. He'd watched his beloveds heart break right in front of him, and it was then that the ex- Paladin realized just how badly he had hurt his mate; Jack had already buried one spouse, and then to have that thrown in his face? Danse had felt like the world's biggest bastard the second those words left his mouth, and yet like a coward he'd remained silent afterwards.

"Honey I love you, but I can't stick around while you do this." Tears had streaked cruelly down Jacks burnished cheeks, and the synth had never felt more crushed than witnessing what his words had wrought.  
"When you're ready to talk and work through this, you'll find me over at Hancock and Celestine's place. I love you Danse. I'll see you when you come 'round."

It had been three whole days before Jack's cousin had shown up on his doorstep, and was now presently dragging him off to get him cleaned, and sobered up. 

"We're here." Said cousins voice brought him back to reality, and it was then that Danse realized that he and Celestine were surrounded. Hancock, MacCready, Preston, and Codsworth were standing in front of the bath house looking very much like a pack of thugs. His clever captor handed his personal wash kit over to her robot butler without so much as a second thought.

"What is the meaning of this?" His voice cracked as he watched the bot open up the pack, rummaging through it's contents before giving a huffy sigh.

"Clearly it's am ambush, my friend." Came Celestine's start reply, before she ignored him in favor of her butler.

"It's a little sparse, Mum, but we'll make do. Is Paladin Danse ready?" Codsworth pointed an eye stalk towards him. Celestine gave a wry laugh just as the other men began to strip down to their boxers.

"Oh absolutely not, but I trust you boys to keep him in check, and don't let him do anything stupid. Make sure he gets a clean shave, and for the love of god, PLEASE see to it that he gets washed more than once; he reeks like a drunk super mutant, and he's twice as greasy." She said, nodding at Danse's glistening face. 

"Don't worry, Mum. We'll have him presentable in no time!" The Mr. Handy said happily as he shook the bag of items teasingly in her face.

Both Preston and MacCready grimaced, their noses wrinkling in disgust before they moved towards their prisoner. Danse suddenly tried to free himself of Celestine's hold, only to have her loosen her grip on his ear and, using one of the high level martial arts moves she'd learned in the Brotherhood, tripped him into the vice like grips of Robert and Preston; they both caught a whiff of the synth as they each latched onto an arm of the stumbling paladin.

"Oh....oh my god! Danse....what the hell, man?" Preston groaned, his throat burning from the scent he'd caught; he really DID smell like a boozed mutant.

"Jesus Christ! My eyes are burning!" Robert whined, though his grip never loosened even as his poor eyes watered.

Danse tried his best to wriggle free, twisting and jerking about in an attempt to gain freedom, but to no avail. Neither Garvey, nor MacCready were letting up on their vice-like grips, and it was then that he knew that he was boned.

"Robert! Preston! Release me at once! This is unacceptable, and humiliating! I can bathe myself!" He growled, only to find himself being dragged into the steamy depths of the bath house. "Codsworth! This is against protocol!"

The robot butler gave a derisive snort as he took up the rear, carrying the wash kit in one of his clawed graspers, and a worn towel in the other.

"Nonsense, Paladin Danse. It's only against protocol if I'm the one holding you captive. Now, let's get you bathed, shall we? I do apologize for the manhandling, but the lady has requested that we assist you, seeing as you've been quite inebriated these last few days. But don't you worry, my good sir, we'll have you as right as rain in no time." The bot chuckled, pulling the bath house door behind him, a puff of steam wafting out as he went in.

The female Vault Dweller turned her attentions away from the comical scene, casting her gaze on her husband who had just finished peeling off the last of his clothing, having opted to go completely nude as was the ghoul mayors wont to do.

"You got this babe?" She asked, her voice no longer the 'commanding soldier', instead sounding soft and unsure. Hancock leaned into her, placing a warm kiss on her lips as he put his tricorn hat on her head for safe keeping.

"Don't you worry about us, Sunshine. We'll get him cleaned up, and we'll make sure he knows how we're all feelin' about this whole thing. You just make sure Jackie boy is OK, ya dig?" Hancock brushed his rough knuckles against Celestine's cheek, before he headed into battle with a bar of soap and his razor-sharp knife. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment he stepped into the blissfully warm room, he saw within the steam an already soaked Danse looking very much like a pissed off, drowned cat. As he was held in place by Garvey and MacCready, Codsworth had already been busy at work using a makeshift wash cloth to clean the man's visage, before he began to lather old world shampoo into his greasy, black locks; nobody had dared to remove his t-shirt or boxers for fear of having him escape their iron grasp, and with as unstable as he'd been, they couldn't afford to let him loose.

"S-s-stop! Why do you insist doing this?" Danse snapped just as the butler dumped a bucket of warm water over his head, leaving the man sputtering and stammering.  
"Sincerest apologies Paladin Danse, but I do have to rinse you." Codsworth sighed. John Hancock squatted down, dipped his knife into another bucket of hot water, and then tested it's sharpness on his soap bar. He gave it a quick slice with his blade, and was pleased with the results: a perfect cut, just what he'd need to give Danse a good shave. He stood up, and made his way over to the captive synth just in time to see that Codsworth had suds'd up the scruff on Danse's face.

"Ya don't know why we're doin' this? Seriously?" Hancock shot an irritated smirk off to the side, his disbelief at such a stupid question plastered over the ropey flesh of his face. "If it hasn't dawned on you yet, crewcut, your friends are doin' this because they give a damn about you, and we don't want you hurting yourself."

Danse stopped his struggling for a moment, his brown eyes filled with disbelief.

"What?" He barked. "I'm a fucking synth! An abomination against nature! All of you should hate me! You should want me gone!" 

He heard Robert snort in disgust over his left shoulder.

"Please, you might be a synth Danse, but you're more human than most the Commonwealth trash that calls this wasteland home. I don't know of anyone else who would have helped me save my Duncan's life had it not been for you and Jack stepping up, and that speaks volumes about the very real man that you are." MacCready said softly. "At any point in time you could have stopped us from getting the cure, lord knows that hospital we traipsed through was a death trap. But you didn't stop us, you helped us, helped me, a man you didn't even like at all save his only child."

Danse was silent for a moment, his body relaxing a little as memories of that event washed over him, until he heard Garvey clear his throat bringing him back to reality. 

"I never thought I'd be friends with anyone from the Brotherhood of Steel, but I have to say I'm proud to call you a friend Danse. Good, Just men, are rare in the Commonwealth these days, and it doesn't matter how you came to be, you're among those rare few." Preston added, his calm, steady voice sounding so sure.

"Why?" Danse's voice broke, tears streaming unabashed from his eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because ya need to hear that none of us hate you for bein' a synth, ya big dope." Hancock piped up from where he stood, playing with his knife.

Danse suddenly shot John a withering look. 

"You of all people should hate me the most. I've treated you with nothing but scorn, and have been openly hostile to you in the past before you married Celestine. Even while spitting on you for being a ghoul, in your core you're still more human than I could ever hope to be, John! How can you possibly see what I am, how I am, and call me a friend?" He practically snarled, sounding as if he were trying to goad Hancock, though to what end was anyone's guess.

The ghoul only shook his bald, patchy head, his signature smirk bowing his ruined mouth.

"See, it looks to me like you're tryin' to paint us in somebody else's colors, like you want us to hate what you are so that you can feel justified about hating yourself. Well, I got news for ya: this ain't the Brotherhood, crewcut. We don't play by their bigoted rules, and we sure as fuck don't love by'em either so you can knock that shit off right there. No accounting for taste but my wife's cousin did marry you, and he might as well be my brother-in-law with as thick as those two thieves are. So, for all intents and purposes that would also make you my in-law, and while you're not my favorite person, you're still family and you don't fuck over family when their having an existential crisis."

Danse was struck speechless. Out of anyone in that room, he felt certain that John Hancock, the ghoul mayor of Goodneighbor would have had at least some venom towards what he was, especially given the fact that he'd been such a bastard to him in the past. He hadn't expected him to show any kindness, and Danse felt like he didn't deserve an ounce of it.

He couldn't stop himself as a sob was torn from his throat, his knees buckled as he fell to the floor having been released from Preston and Roberts hold.

"Paladin Danse, you asked why these things were being told to you, and if you'll forgive my boldness Sir, I think that it's quite obvious why: to remind you that, synth or not, no one here is going to hate you or banish you from Sanctuary simply for being something that was entirely beyond your control." Codsworth placed a grasper gently onto Danse's naked shoulder in an attempt to comfort him.

"Yeah, we're kinda fond of that gruff boy scout exterior. Ain't no way we're kicking you out." Robert half chuckled as he placed his own hand next to Codsworth's limb, and was soon joined by Prestons.

"You might not belong to the Brotherhood anymore Danse, but that's their loss. The Minutemen are proud to count you among their ranks, I mean, you did marry our General." Garvey said with genuine warmth.  
Danse couldn't help but chuckle through his tears, truly touched by what he was hearing, no matter how ridiculous it sounded.

"Thank you, all of you. I don't deserve your friendship, but I will spend the rest of my days trying to be worthy of it." He said, his voice still a little shaky from his outburst.

"Yeah, yeah. It ain't us that you gotta prove your worth to their, hot shot. That's Jack's department right there, and a little bit'a Celestine's, too. You owe them both an apology, and Jack a lifetime of makeup sex which means that we need to finish whippin' you into shape." While Hancock did his best to come off as his usual, flippant self, everyone in that room could hear the sincere kindness in his gravelly voice. He reached down and offered his free hand to the paladin who was still kneeling on the wet tile floor. For a moment Danse hesitated, his mind battling against all of the bigotry and hatred against ghouls the Brotherhood had drilled into him over his many years of service. 

No, he thought to himself, that was in the past. This was a chance at turning over a new leaf and starting anew, and while he knew that it was going to take a long while to get over such ingrained prejudices, he knew that with time and a little help from his comrades, he could begin again.

Danse reached out and clasped the ghouls hand in a firm grip, much to Hancock's surprised delight, finding the smaller fellow to be incredibly strong as he hoisted the him back onto his feet like it was nothing. 

"Now, let's re-lather that face of yours. I can't shave ya if you're missin suds."

~~~~~~~~

General Jack sat on the picnic table just outside of his and Danse's home observing the antics that went on around him, a cold Nuka-Cola between his hands. He was content in that moment as he watched his ragtag family enjoying the meal they'd all worked hard together to make, their laughter and voices helping to chase away the lurking shadows of the last three months he'd been through; His paladin had finally come to talk to him, to beg him for mercy and forgiveness of which Jack readily gave him on the condition that they 1. Always talk about things, and 2. That Danse never question his place in Jack's life, or any of their family's lives. His husband agreed to those terms, and after three agonizing days the General of the Minutemen was finally able to hold his beloved once more, and kiss him until they were senseless.

His Danse was still busy manning the grill, but looked up just in time to catch Jack's gem-like blue-yellow eyes with his own chocolate brown. Danse blushed as their eyes connected, and god help him Jack loved it when that man blushed, was a total sucker for it. So, he cheekily blew him a kiss and was instantly rewarded with his hubby's cheeks darkening in the twilight. He smirked victoriously.

Jack suddenly felt something warm, and very human lean into his right side where he sat, and when he turned his blond head to see who it was, he had found Celestine. She had taken up the empty spot next to him, cuddling into his side and placing her head gently onto his shoulder, her big blue eyes looking back at him with love. He wrapped his arm around her plump waist and hugged her, resting his fuzzy head against the soft silk of her hair.

"Thanks for what you did today, hon." He said softly, feeling her wrap one of her free arms around his back, and giving him a squeeze in return.

"For what, Jackie boy?" She asked, calling him by the affectionate nickname she'd used with him since they were 10. "I didn't do anything."

"The fuck you didn't do anything." Jack laughed softly, his voice barely carrying over the din of everyone else's chatter. "You helped keep me sane while this whole fucking thing with Danse was going down. Fuck, you let me stay with you, you put up with my crying, drunk ass, and you refused to let me fucking fall apart when that's all I wanted to do, that and you kicked some sense into my husbands ass. Pretty sure that gets you a fucking huge-ass thank you for doing all that."

"To be fair, I didn't kick his ass, I merely dragged him by the ear to the bath house where a posse of Sanctuary's finest took care of the ass-beating, AKA the Foamtastic Four." Celestine chuckled under her breath.  
"Regardless, blood or no blood you're my cousin and my best friend, and I'd do it all again and then some. You wanna know why?" She asked, her voice tinged with laughter as she lifted her head to look her cousin in the eye.

"Why?" Jack asked, knowing full well what she was going to say next.

"Because I love you, dumb ass. Duh!" She smirked, reaching up to ruffle the blond fuzz of his mohawk before settling back down by his side.

Jack pressed a brotherly kiss to her forehead before resting his head back on hers.

"Love you, too, chickadee." He replied, calling her by his nickname for her, happy to finally have some semblance of peace for once.

And in the light of the setting sun, the settlers of Sanctuary celebrated the very bonds that held them together. Their voices lifted in song and merry making, their hearts full with the love of their family and friends who made each day surviving in the Commonwealth just a little more bearable than it was the day before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for this being late. I have been dealing with some mental health issues, on top of trying to figure out how to better care for my autoimmune disease. Thank you for your patience and understanding.
> 
> Peace!


End file.
